Null Hypothesis
by dysprositos
Summary: This could not work. That was the null hypothesis, the default position, the automatic assumption that only definite, indisputable evidence could begin to call into question. Bruce knew without a doubt this experiment would fail by design. Tony wanted to see the data. On hiatus until I learn to write romance.
1. Null Hypothesis

**Edited 7/2/13**

**Hello, and welcome to "Null Hypothesis," my very first attempt at writing romance. Ever. I have remained until now unwilling to touch romance with a ten-foot pole. But then, this just sort-of happened.**

**Please note that my one-shot, "Nothing Left" could be read as a prequel to this story, especially once chapter 2 comes along. This story should make sense if you don't, but reading it will help.**

**Also note that this will not be smutty, fluffy, or even particularly happy—though it might become less depressing with time.**

**Thanks to my beta, irite, for reassuring me that I wasn't fucking this up as badly as I thought I was.**

* * *

The unfortunate thing about being a genius was that it was incredibly lonely.

No one ever really mentioned that part. Most people figured that those people, the ones who made smart people feel like incompetent toddlers, were so enthralled in their own intellect that they didn't have time for things like loneliness. They were too busy doing, thinking, creating, building. Things as mundane as relationships, as contact with other people, were certainly too boring to hold their interest for long.

It never occurred to them that all the doing, thinking, creating, and building often had to serve as a distraction from the fact that those people wanted relationships desperately, but could not have them.

And it usually wasn't for lack of trying. It's just...how do you form a connection with someone when the only thing you have in common is basic anatomy?

For Tony Stark, basic anatomy had been the basis of most of his relationships. If you could call them that. "Fling" was really more appropriate, or the ever-popular "one-night stand." Even his relationship with Pepper had been, ultimately, superficial. She was busy running his company, trying to manage him, and so she had no time for or interest in small scale nuclear reactions, forging new elements, or building increasingly sophisticated armored suits.

And they couldn't talk, not really. Conversation had been more like a pointless competition, simultaneously under-and-over stimulating. Sometimes it was painful, and usually it ended with nothing resolved, accomplished, or gained.

With everyone, the result was more or less the same. Tony came to feel as if he couldn't talk to anyone. Sure, he could chat with JARVIS if he ever needed a break from explaining. If he ever wanted to feel like he was speaking English. But JARVIS, advanced as he was, could not create. He could only listen, could only respond in the ways Tony had programmed him to.

Sometimes, that was good enough. But mostly it wasn't. Tony needed someone he could build something with, someone who shared his vision, his passion. Someone who understood the loneliness that stemmed from keeping those things constantly in check.

It was not surprising, Tony thought, that he had fallen for the first person who did.

That it was understandable did not make it any less unworkable.

And it was unworkable. That was the "null hypothesis." The default position, the automatic assumption that only definite, indisputable evidence could begin to call into question.

Tony had been aware of his growing feelings for Bruce for awhile. The physicist got him in a way that was like a breath of fresh air after a lifetime of suffocation. Tony could feel his attachment growing the longer they worked together, lived together. He knew it wasn't entirely platonic. But he shoved those feelings down to reside somewhere between the memories of his father and those of his time in Afghanistan. He wouldn't think about it. After all, he was straight. Ostentatiously so. And Bruce was celibate. Really, really celibate.

Okay, maybe not celibate. "Celibate" implied that it was voluntary. Tony thought that it probably wasn't voluntary, exactly. Well, it was, in that Banner could probably get laid pretty easily whenever he wanted, but chose to abstain. But that was because he was worried about taking out a neighborhood or something if he got too excited. So, maybe it wasn't a choice. Maybe it was more of an obligation. Obligatory celibacy. How depressing.

Ideas like "choice" and "voluntary" and "celibate" became pretty complicated after most of a bottle of whiskey, Tony realized. But then, so did things like basic motor control. And good decision making.

Which brought him back to his current situation.

* * *

Tony was aware of the hazards of consuming food or beverages in a chemistry lab. Something could get mixed in with your drink, or you could grab the wrong container and take a swig of sulfuric acid.

Of course, Tony thought, anyone who actually picks up a beaker of sulfuric acid and takes a drink deserves whatever happens to them. Survival of the fittest, and all that.

Despite that, he knew Bruce was all about lab safety (it was kind of ironic, really) so as a compromise, Tony kept his glass of Jack Daniel's in his hand as he watched the physicist work to separate the different compounds from a mixture.

This is, he thought, the most boring thing I have ever had to witness. And that was saying something.

"Christ, Banner, this is undergraduate level chemistry shit. You're not even a chemist. Isn't there some poor lab geek at SHIELD who could have done this for you?"

Without taking his eyes from the thermometer he was monitoring, Bruce replied, "Maybe. And if I wanted it screwed up, I would let them. I'd really like to make sure this doesn't get screwed up, though. I kind of need to concentrate," he hinted.

Tony picked up on the hint, but ignored it. The only thing more boring than drinking and watching Bruce would have been drinking alone.

Still, he could make this more interesting. "Concentrate away, Dr. Banner," Tony said, raising an eyebrow and taking a long drink of his whiskey. "There's nothing sexier than a man with brains. I could watch this all day."

Bruce didn't even acknowledge that Tony had spoken, just rolled his eyes. The billionaire tended to flirt with anything that stood still long enough, including, he suspected, furniture. Reacting to it just encouraged him.

When it became clear he wasn't going to get a response (not even a blush? Really? He was getting out of practice) Tony shrugged, took his drink, and settled down at the next table over. For the next forty-five minutes, he entertained himself by antagonizing Barton via text message and stomping Steve at Words With Friends.

He hadn't been keeping very good track of how many refills he had poured himself, so when he stood to fill his once-again empty glass, he was surprised to find out that he had crossed the line from "slightly buzzed" into "drunk." Actually, he might have crossed the next line, into "wasted."

Ha, that was awesome. He had to share this extremely important information. "Bruce! Hey Bruce! HEY! BRUCE!"

"What? I heard you. You're four feet away, you don't need to yell."

"I'm not yelling!" Tony yelled. "Guess what?" he uttered in the same breath, "I got drunk while you were working!"

"I couldn't tell," Bruce muttered, mostly to himself. Finished, at least for the night, he shut off the light in the fume hood and slid the window down, checking quickly to make sure he'd shut everything off. He'd left the water for his condenser running once and had somehow flooded the whole floor. Tony had needed to replace just about everything. Not that he had minded, or even really noticed, but Bruce didn't want to do it again.

That done, Bruce looked over to where the drunken billionaire was standing, swaying in place, and leaning rather precariously against the edge of the table. He sighed. "Do you...need something?"

"Nope! But you do! You should have a drink."

"I don't drink, Tony."

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard. But it sucks being drunk alone."

Bruce thought maybe Tony should have thought about that before imbibing more than half a bottle of Jack Daniel's. When he expressed as much, Tony responded, "Aw, Bruce, do you always have to be such a damn stick in the mud? Would it kill you to let your hair down?"

"No. It might kill you, though." Bruce wondered idly if Tony knew how many clichés he'd managed to cram into that last sentence.

Tony thought Bruce hadn't made a very good point. "Whatever, Banner. Cut loose for once." Tony took a step forward, heading towards the cabinet with the clean glassware (even though he knew Bruce would freak out about drinking from used chemistry equipment...God, he was uptight). He didn't make it far, though, because his foot snagged on what seemed to be nothing, and he found himself pitching towards the floor.

Bruce, reacting quickly, took a step forward and caught him. "Nice, Tony. Maybe you should sit back down," he said, trying to maneuver the other man back onto his feet.

But Tony had apparently lost the ability to communicate with his legs, or else he was being intentionally difficult. So Bruce found himself awkwardly hugging the billionaire, supporting Tony's weight entirely by holding him against his chest.

Tony found his new situation pretty interesting. For one, he couldn't seem to figure out what the fuck his legs were trying to do. 'Cause they sure as shit weren't listening to him. Second, Bruce was a lot stronger than he looked. He really wouldn't have blamed the physicist for just dropping him, but no, he was holding on.

Tony felt like he could have stayed in this position for the rest of the night, but thought Bruce would probably have some objections. So he leaned backwards, trying to find his balance.

* * *

Bruce steadied him, hands strong on his shoulders. "You all right?" he asked, craning his neck to check Tony's pupillary response. Which was impossible given the way that Tony was swaying in place.

Bruce tried to move Tony towards a chair, but it was futile. The billionaire lost his balance, falling back against the physicist's chest.

Really, Tony thought, this position is pretty nice. Comfortable.

Bruce didn't seem to agree, though. "Tony," he said, exasperated, "Come on, make an effort—"

Tony decided he wasn't interested in hearing the rest of that sentence. So, his inhibitions lost somewhere between the molecules of ethanol in his bloodstream, he leaned forward a little more. Turning his head, he caught Bruce's mouth with his own.

For a moment-half a second, maybe, no more—Bruce seemed to lean into the kiss. But then he hurled himself away, sending Tony crashing to the floor. The speed and violence of his movement had Tony reaching clumsily for the bracelet on his wrist.

It was unnecessary. Bruce wasn't going green. But he was tense, standing with his arms crossed tightly across his chest, shoulders set rigidly, staring at the floor.

Tony felt that some kind of explanation on his part was probably necessary at this point. He wasn't sure what he was going to say, but started talking anyway. "Bruce," he began, trying to ignore the prominent slur on the 's' sound, "I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking-"

Without a word, the physicist turned on his heel and walked out of the lab.

* * *

**Short, I know, but my chapters tend to get longer once I figure out where I'm going.**

**Please review. Otherwise I struggle to stay afloat in the ocean of my own insecurity.**


	2. Ruthless Unrelenting Control

**Edited 7/2/13**

**Warnings: language, I guess?**

**Thanks to my beta, irite, for being awesome and encouraging, as always.**

**Just a reminder that my one-shot "Nothing Left" can be read as a prequel to this. I'll stop saying this after this chapter, I swear.**

**I do not own the Avengers.**

* * *

For the next three days, they avoided each other, engaging in an awkward yet effective dance of evasion and deflection.

Of course, Tony told himself that he wasn't actually avoiding Bruce. He was just working. The fact that he had never before in his life let work get in the way of anything he truly wanted to do was irrelevant. He had things he needed to do. In lab seven. On the seventy-eighth floor. Four floors away from Bruce. Working for twelve to sixteen hours a day. At least.

Bruce was far more honest with himself. He acknowledged that he was, most definitely, avoiding Tony. Although perhaps not for the reason that Tony would have expected him to be.

Because, really, kissing Bruce was not the strangest thing that Tony had ever done. In fact, Bruce had some doubts that it even ranked as the strangest thing Tony had done that week. There had been the incident with the goldfish on Tuesday, after all, and that had been pretty weird. Comparatively, drunkenly trying to make out with his friend and coworker was pretty normal. People did that kind of thing all the time.

So, Bruce wasn't too weirded out by the kiss.

The real problem was...he had liked it.

Bruce had been drawn to Tony's charisma from the moment they had shaken hands on SHIELD's helicarrier. As was so often the case with introverts, Bruce craved the kind of warmth and energy that Tony exuded, had in fact been drawn to it like a moth to a flame. And Tony's intelligence and passion burned so brightly that Bruce couldn't help but bask in it. He wasn't sure what he felt for the billionaire, not really, but it was definitely something. And that something, whatever it was, had not minded the kiss, not at all.

This was all problematic, though. And it wasn't because he was against homosexuality or anything equally stupid. He couldn't care less about that. Bruce believed that life tended to be full of enough misery on its own; there was no point in adding to it unnecessarily. People really ought to do whatever makes them happy, he figured.

At least, in terms of relationships. When you got into stuff like "slaughtering the innocent because it makes me happy," well, that was a different story.

In general, people ought to do whatever makes them happy. Just...there were some notable exceptions.

Like Bruce Banner, for example.

Because Bruce had learned long ago that emotions, even happiness, were more trouble than they were worth. They led to problems. Huge, green, murderous, rampaging problems. Problems that he could not deal with. Problems that no one should have to deal with, ever.

And so he had cut them from his life. At least, he had tried.

He had found, to his horror, that he couldn't banish all emotions, despite his best efforts. They kept coming back, triggered by things beyond his control.

Bruce was not entirely without agency, though. There were things he could control. And in those areas where he could exercise control, he did it ruthlessly and unrelentingly. So while he might not be able to curb his emotions, not all the time, he could do a hell of a lot to control the situations that caused them. As such, his life soon came to be defined by an ever-growing list of things he chose to avoid.

Relationships were one of those things. He had accepted that he was done with relationships years ago. There was too much passion tied up them, too much emotion. The potential for disaster was too high for him to ever take that kind of risk again.

It seemed like a rather small price to pay, if the alternative was being a monster.

So, even though Bruce felt...something for Tony, and even though he had liked kissing him, there existed exactly zero potential for anything to come of it.

He didn't even know if Tony wanted something to come of it. And maybe that was the real problem. Tony was supposedly impulsive, evidently lacked self-control, was reputedly shallow, and had a well-documented habit of sleeping with anyone with two X chromosomes. A kiss, especially a drunken one, probably meant nothing.

Truth be told...Bruce wasn't even sure if he wanted anything to come of it. He couldn't see that far, through the wall of 'this thing cannot happen.'

So, Bruce figured it was easier to just avoid Tony. Explaining all of that shit was too awkward, too embarrassing, and would involve giving the billionaire way, way more information than Bruce was willing to relinquish.

Unfortunately, as it turned out, avoiding someone in a building that was almost one hundred stories high was actually pretty complicated. Of course, this may have been because both parties trying to dodge each other called the Tower "home." Really, Bruce thought, after he had quite literally bumped into Tony in the kitchen, it's impressive we made it through three days. I should probably just be thankful for that.

Out loud, he muttered, "Uh, hi."

Tony had learned long ago that the fastest way to defuse an awkward situation was to make it more awkward. Or maybe that was how you made an awkward situation explode. Either way, it got rid of the problem. Hence Tony's brilliant plan to commence Operation: Be An Ass.

"Hey, Bruce. Don't worry," he said with an exaggerated calming gesture, "I learned my lesson. Not going to go for first base again. Gotta say, though, I was pretty insulted. No one's ever been so eager to get away from me that they threw themselves across the room. And dropped me on my ass. And then hid for three days."

Bruce turned bright red. Wow, does Tony have a way with words, or what? And that's not fair. I'm not the only one who's been hiding."I'm sorry about that—"

Tony waved him off dismissively. "Don't be. I was drunk. I probably deserved it."

Bruce didn't reply. The look on his face was inscrutable. Trying to get a read on what the physicist was thinking, and to rile him up a little, Tony added, "So, no more kissing. I promise. Unless," he raised one of his eyebrows, "You want to."

Tony was surprised by how easy it was to joke about this, like part of him didn't desperately wish that Bruce would change his mind. But then, he had had many years of practice in speaking without thinking. Indeed, that was often the only kind of conversation that was required from him.

In his reverie, Tony almost missed Bruce's reaction. Almost.

And what a reaction it was. Tony was intrigued to see that Bruce's response wasn't at all what he'd been expecting. Instead of irritation, or embarrassment, or even anger, Bruce's mouth settled into a frown and for a moment he looked deeply, profoundly unhappy.

The next instant, it was gone.

"No, I think that's all right," Bruce responded. "Maybe you should lay off the whiskey for a while, before you do anything else stupid. Like provoke a giant, green rage monster." He paused, then added, "Oh, wait, you're doing that right now. Sober."

His words were joking, and he was smirking. Yet, the expression didn't quite reach his eyes.

Now Tony was really curious. He decided to go on with his plan of pushing as many buttons as possible. "I didn't say it was stupid, Banner, I just said I wouldn't do it again."

Bruce's eyes widened slightly, surprised. A second later, though, he stated flatly, "It was stupid." The sudden change in his demeanor was almost startling. Tony was about to comment on it, but he didn't get the chance. Bruce turned and walked through the doorway, leaving his breakfast, untouched, on the kitchen counter.

Tony thought he'd been seeing an awful lot of Bruce's back lately.

* * *

It must be nice, Bruce thought, that he can be so casual about this.

What was, to Tony, just a stupid drunken mistake was much more serious than the billionaire realized.

First, and most importantly, it didn't occur to him that surprising Bruce that badly could have deadly serious consequences, both for himself and for anyone within a several-mile wide radius.

Second, the fact that things like kissing often held a lot of deep, emotional connotations did not even register with the billionaire. Bruce imagined that since Tony apparently had the emotional depth of a plastic spoon (Bruce was feeling maybe just a touch bitter), he hadn't thought that other people might read something into his actions that he had not intended.

But of course, Tony Fucking Stark didn't have to stop and think about every single thing he did. He got to make stupid, drunken mistakes. Which this whole incident had been, as Tony had made perfectly clear.

And that was okay, because the idea of any kind of a relationship between them was completely ridiculous. Entirely impossible. Way too dangerous to consider. Not going to happen. Tony lacked the emotional maturity. Bruce lacked the emotional capacity. He knew all of that. Logically.

Then why, exactly, did it hurt so much to hear Tony's rationalization? To hear him joke about it?

Bruce felt his mouth move, heard his voice say something about rage monsters. He wasn't really paying attention. Funny how sometimes you didn't even need to think to carry on a conversation. Maybe that was really the best way to do it.

But Tony's next words grabbed his attention again. "I didn't say it was stupid, Banner, I just said I wouldn't do it again."

What? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Nothing. It probably meant nothing. Tony was just being Tony, his usual asshole self. And one of his favorite asshole pastimes was, for some self-destructive or masochistic reason, antagonizing Bruce.

"It was stupid," Bruce informed him, voice cold and hard, leaving no room for argument.

Yet it seemed like Tony was going to make an attempt at argument anyway. Bruce found that he didn't think he could stomach listening to anything the billionaire might come up with to say. So he left.

It was, he reflected, something that he seemed to do a lot.

* * *

**Thanks to everyone who followed, favorited, and reviewed!**

**I know I said my chapters would get longer…apparently, I lied. Still trying to work out exactly where this is going.**

**Please review. They help me think.**


	3. Tequila Sunrise

**Edited 7/2/13**

**Many thanks to my beta, irite, without whom this chapter would have been relegated to the recycle bin with nary a second glance.**

* * *

Tony Stark was not an alcoholic.

Because that word conjured up images of bloodshot eyes, shaking hands, clumsy stumbling, broken noses. Blackouts, hangovers, losing days at a time. Pathetic weakness.

So, Tony Stark was not an alcoholic.

Because mostly, he turned to alcohol for fun, or when he was bored. That he often turned to alcohol as an alternative to actually having to deal with things, or when he might have to feel something...that was irrelevant.

After watching Bruce disappear to wherever it was he had gone, the first thing Tony did was ignore his (joking...or was it?) directive to avoid alcohol. He didn't want to think about whatever the fuck it was that had just happened. Bruce was being a pissy little bitch, that was all. And that ache in his chest that had flared up, watching the physicist walk away? That was nothing that a little ethanol couldn't fix.

There is nothing wrong with drinking at 9:30 on a Saturday morning, he rationalized. It is the weekend.

And non-alcoholics decide to have tequila shots for breakfast all the fucking time.

* * *

When Bruce reappeared in the kitchen a bit after 1:00 (his hunger finally winning out over his desire to avoid Tony...besides, Tony was probably long gone by now, right?), Tony was slumped over on a barstool at the island, sleeping with his head resting on his folded arms, shot glass and mostly-empty bottle of Patron Silver by his elbow.

So, not sleeping. Passed out. Oh, that was charming.

Quietly, so as to not disturb the already-disturbed billionaire, Bruce threw together a sandwich and poured himself a glass of milk. He was tiptoeing (am I really doing this? Really?) back out of the kitchen when Tony's precarious balance on his barstool was disturbed by...something...and he pitched sideways.

His head connected with the granite tiles of the floor with an alarmingly loud crack.

Damn, Bruce thought intelligently. He set his lunch down, next to his previously-disregarded breakfast (I hope I remember to come back for that), and made his way over to where Tony was sprawled on the floor.

He'd ended up lying face down, so Bruce carefully rolled him over. From the blood running from his nose, and the lump forming near his hairline, it looked like he'd landed face-first. Well, that was good. The frontal bone was pretty sturdy. Still, concussion was a possibility. And it seemed pretty likely that his nose was broken. It didn't look off center, but the billionaire was sporting the beginnings of a matching pair of black eyes.

Fabulous.

Bruce looked around, hoping for some kind of assistance. But Steve was on a mission, and would be for a few more days. Natasha and Clint were probably working—did they do anything else? So, it was just him.

Grabbing Tony under his arms (and wishing for just a little bit of his Hulk strength), Bruce lugged Tony through the kitchen and into the living room. He heaved him onto one of the couches and turned on the overhead lights.

With a better look at Tony's face, Bruce seriously considered calling a doctor...or taking Tony to the ER. But he knew how Tony felt about doctors, and about hospitals in general, so he thought he would make an effort to avoid that.

It occurred to him that maybe he probably shouldn't have moved Tony until he was sure he hadn't suffered a neck or spine injury from his fall.

Whoops.

Well, couldn't do anything about that, now.

Bruce figured he should at least try to determine if Tony's unresponsiveness was due to some kind of brain injury, or if it was related to the tequila. First, though, he went to his bathroom and grabbed a washcloth. He ran it under the faucet. On his way back, he stopped in the kitchen, trying to find an ice pack. All they had was frozen peas. Shrugging, Bruce grabbed them and headed back to the living room.

Then, he kneeled down next to the couch. With more force that was probably necessary, he jabbed his finger into Tony's shoulder. "Hey. Wake up."

Nothing.

Louder, this time, and with a more vicious jab. "Hey! Wake. Up."

Tony shifted and groaned. "Go 'way." Well, that was good. It was English, anyway. And almost coherent.

"Oh, you wish. Wake up!"

"I am awake...Christ, what the fuck?"

"I was kind of wondering the same thing."

Tony reached a hand up and felt the tacky, drying blood on his upper lip. Then, he gingerly prodded at his forehead. He cracked his eyes open. "The fuck happened to my face?"

"You passed out while you were sitting up. Gravity is a heartless bitch."

"I...fell?"

"More or less. Can you sit up?" He handed Tony the damp washcloth.

With only a little more effort than he would have liked (and would ever have admitted), Tony obliged. He carefully started wiping the blood away from his mouth and chin.

"Look at me," Bruce said, after Tony had mostly managed to get the gore off his face. "Follow my finger."

Tony managed to do that, too.

"I'm not a doctor, but I don't think you have a concussion. You should probably go to the hospital to make sure. They might be able to do something about your nose." He held out the frozen peas helpfully. Tony accepted them, pressing the makeshift ice pack to his face so that it covered both his nose and forehead.

More conscious now, Tony had begun to notice the cool, apathetic way Bruce was speaking. Like he couldn't even be bothered to put some inflection into his words. Half-drunk and in pain, he found it really pissed him off.

"What the fuck is your problem? And what's wrong with my nose?"

Ignoring the first part of that, Bruce replied, "It might be broken."

"...You're kidding." Bloodshot eyes, shaking hands, clumsy stumbling...broken noses.

Bruce shrugged, apparently indifferent. "No. Do you want a mirror?"

"Fuck you." That hadn't actually been what he'd intended to say. But, really, it would suffice.

"Wow. Hostile. I'll chalk that up to your rampant alcoholism." Because he didn't feel like playing nice, not after their little talk this morning. Tony didn't control the market on being a jackass.

But Bruce didn't realize how perfectly badly timed that particular remark was.

"Rampant...alcoholism. That's nice, Banner. Do I have any other flaws you'd like to expound on?"

Okay, maybe it had been a low blow. "Look, I'm sorry—"

"Because if you're done, I wouldn't mind taking the opportunity to expound on some of yours."

Bruce stood abruptly. "You should go to the hospital, Tony." He started towards the door.

Before he'd made it a step, though, Tony had caught his wrist in an iron grip. "If walking away was an Olympic sport, I think you'd take the gold. Can you just stop running for a minute?"

Bruce yanked his arm out of Tony's grasp. "Yeah, you're one to talk about running. What the hell do you call this?" he gestured at the bruises on Tony's face.

"Extraordinarily bad luck. Also, I wasn't running. I was drinking," Tony said, as if this was obvious.

"You were passed out by lunchtime, Tony, that's not..."

"Not what?"

"It's not normal. So don't tell me you just decided to have a few cocktails with lunch or something. There was something else going on. Right?"

Tony wasn't in the mood to get into this. So he deflected. "Is the irony of this completely lost on you?"

Bruce looked confused. "Irony?"

"The guy who gets angry and turns into a rage monster is trying to deliver a lecture on appropriate ways to cope with my 'feelings.' Oh, and if you're not turning into a rage monster, you're just walking away. So, forgive me if I don't buy into the Bruce Banner School of Advanced Coping Mechanisms."

"Fuck," he added, almost as an afterthought, "You're so closed off, I don't even know what you're trying to get away from most of the time."

The expression on the physicist's face was as inscrutable as ever. He again moved towards the door.

"Wait."

Bruce stopped, tense.

"I'm sorry I kissed you."

Bruce shrugged stiffly, his back still to Tony. "You said that already."

"No, I didn't."

Technically, that was true. "Oh. Well, now you have."

"You gonna stop avoiding me now?"

With a small shake of his head, Bruce muttered, barely audible, "No."

"No? What the fuck? I'm sorry, okay? I didn't know you'd be so weird about it—"

Unexpectedly, Bruce turned, interrupting him, "When was the last time you stopped to think about how someone else felt?"

Ouch. That was a little harsh. "I—"

"Because you can't just do something like that and apologize afterwards, and expect it'll just go away, Tony!"

Even partly drunk and nursing a head injury, Tony was still a genius, still one of those people, still perceptive enough to notice things that might otherwise go unmentioned. And right now, he was having the beginnings of a revelation.

Bruce Banner was usually pretty easy going. But for some reason, he couldn't just let Tony's actions roll off him. Tony knew that there were two things about which Bruce was unflinchingly rigid, though. The first was lab safety. The second was keeping his emotions under control. Unless the physicist was stringently homophobic, which was highly unlikely given his live-and-let-live attitude, then Tony had inadvertently crossed a boundary in one of those two areas.

He didn't think kissing posed any serious safety risks in the laboratory.

Bruce found that he didn't much care for Tony's sudden silence, or for the look of surprised understanding that had crossed his face. "Tony...?"

The billionaire was lost in his own half-incoherent thoughts. Was it possible that Bruce felt something for him? That he wasn't being weird about the kiss because he had hated it, but because he had liked it? Tony hadn't even considered that as a possibility. Hell, it had been hard enough coming to terms with the fact that he had feelings for Bruce. Once he'd done that, he had accepted that his crush was going to remain that—just a crush, unreciprocated. That there was another option was, frankly...intriguing.

Tony realized Bruce had closed the distance between them, had in fact seated himself on the couch beside him, and had been trying to get his attention. From the concerned look on the physicist's face, he'd apparently been trying for a while.

"What?" he asked, still not entirely focused on what Bruce was trying to say.

"Maybe you really should go to the hospital, Tony. I think you're having some trouble concentrating..."

Well, no shit. How was he supposed to concentrate in light of the epiphany he'd just had?

"I'm a little distracted, actually, so don't worry," Tony murmured, his alcohol-dazed eyes tracing a slow, blurry path from Bruce's eyes, down the line of his jaw, to the tiny triangle of skin visible at the top of his button-down shirt.

Before he could get any lower, though, Bruce shifted next to him, and Tony dragged his eyes back up to meet his.

"Distracted? Are you sure you're feeling all right? Are you nauseated, maybe? Light-headed?"

"Nope. You know, Bruce, you could have just said something. Told me. You know." Tony found that the uncertainty he'd been feeling a moment ago had been overshadowed by the ever-present cockiness that he allowed to guide most of his actions. That was good; it was easier that way.

Although, the tequila didn't hurt, either.

Bruce found the way that Tony was repeating himself to be a little concerning. He was still fixated on the idea of brain damage. "Okay...? Told you what?"

"That you liked it when I kissed you."

Tony hadn't even been aware of the way they had been leaning in towards each other, until Bruce jerked backwards. Tony felt the loss acutely.

He had thought the physicist had been closed off before he'd opened his mouth. Compared to now, though, he had been an open book. Bruce refused to meet Tony's eyes, staring instead a point slightly to the left of his head. After a few beats of silence, he stated flatly, "I don't know what you mean."

But Tony knew he wasn't wrong. It was the only conclusion that made sense. "Oh, really?"

Bruce stood. "It never occurred to you that maybe I just didn't like it? That I want you to drop it? Leave me alone?"

Tony shrugged. "Sure. But I know you better than that. I think there's only one thing that could get you this upset. You're worried about losing it, right? Losing control of your emotions. You think you can't risk it, so, yeah, of course you want me to leave you alone—"

Bruce needed to get out of this situation, now. Confrontations in general were a bad idea. This confrontation, though, could not happen. "Yeah, I guess you've got it all figured out, Tony. Great. Good for you."

"Bruce, come on—" And Tony, always better with actions than words, grabbed Bruce by the front of his shirt and jerked him down so that the physicist was practically straddling him. Before he could do more than form the beginnings of a protest, Tony had crushed their mouths together. He sucked on Bruce's lower lip, caressed it with his tongue.

Bruce went completely rigid. Then, unexpectedly, he relaxed. Surprised, Tony ended the kiss and opened his eyes. Bruce was staring down at him, his expression completely neutral. His breathing was controlled, inhale three seconds, exhale six, and after a moment he said, softly, "This isn't going to happen, Tony."

The blank certainty in his voice was disturbing, almost as much as the sudden feeling Tony had that Bruce had pulled back into himself so completely that the fact they were physically touching had become meaningless.

Breathless, frustrated, Tony asked, "Why not?"

He wasn't expecting an answer at all, not really, not after that.

He really wasn't expecting the answer Bruce gave him.

* * *

**So. If you couldn't tell from the author's note at the top, I'm pretty insecure about this. Actually, about this whole story, since anything romantic at _all _is _so _not my thing. That said, please review so I know how this is going.**


	4. Departure

**Edited 7/2/13**

**Warnings: language…?**

**Thanks to my beta, irite, for being pretty much amazing, always.**

**I do not own the Avengers.**

* * *

"Why not?" Tony asked, breathless, his voice taut with frustration.

He didn't expect Bruce to answer, not after the way the physicist had pulled back into himself. It was almost as if he'd vacated his body entirely and Tony was just holding an empty shell.

It took a few moments, and Tony had resigned himself to the fact that he would never get a response, but Bruce did answer. Just not in a particularly rational or, well, comforting way.

His voice completely flat, Bruce said, "I will kill you, Tony." His voice was certain, as if he knew beyond a doubt that was how this would end. The inevitable terminus of a dangerous road. A road that should not exist, should never have even been conceived, because it led only to ruin.

"...What?" Tony asked, disconcerted. That wasn't what he had been expecting. Granted, he didn't know what he should have been expecting. The last few minutes had been, frankly, overwhelming. He wasn't entirely sure how he'd gone from drinking in the kitchen, to making out with Bruce, to talking about his impending death at the physicist's hands.

But Bruce was apparently more than happy to clarify, continuing on in that hollow, vacant tone. "Don't you see how dangerous this is? I'm no good for you. For anybody. I'm not going to put you in that kind of danger. Not you."

Now Tony was starting to get it. And he thought that Bruce was being awfully fatalistic. And just a touch paternalistic. Maybe even unrealistic. Any other 'istic' words you want to throw in there, Stark, or are you done? "Why don't you let me worry about that?"

Still sounding completely empty (which was getting concerning; the word for this was 'dissociation,' Tony thought, and it was not good), and focusing very intently on the wall behind Tony's head, Bruce replied, "Can you? 'Cause I don't think you can."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Tony demanded.

Bruce smiled faintly, an expression that Tony found infuriating. He reached an unsteady hand up and brushed his fingers gently against the bruising on Tony's forehead. "Your instinct for self-preservation seems to be lacking, that's all." Indignant, Tony began to reply, but he was cut off by Bruce asking, "Are you attracted to me, Tony?"

That was...sudden. And he thought he'd been pretty clear about that. "Of course I am, I thought I was being kind of unequivocal, with the kissing—"

"Are you sure? Are you sure that whatever you feel for me isn't some kind of twisted thrill-seeking thing? A death wish? Something your subconscious couldn't even admit to itself?"

"What?" Tony stood abruptly, dumping Bruce unceremoniously onto the floor. "What the fuck, Banner, where would you even come up with that? Jesus, how screwed up are you?"

He regretted the movement almost immediately. The wave of dizziness that accompanied it nearly took him off his feet. He remained standing, though, but barely, wavering in place.

Bruce didn't move from the floor, didn't make any effort to meet Tony's eyes when he said, "I'm fucked up? I didn't fall for a monster, Tony."

The full weight of the physicist's self-loathing hit him like a truck, and Tony nearly stumbled under it. "You're not a monster," he managed to choke out. "You just have..."

"What? A condition? 'Anger management issues?' You're pretty goddamn smart, Tony, so why can't you see this?"

Tony didn't even know what to say to something so completely irrational. So instead of speaking, instead of trying to see this awful thing through to the end, he decided to take a page from the Bruce Banner School of Advanced Coping Mechanisms.

As he was walking away, he thought he could understand the appeal.

* * *

From the deep, quiet place to which Bruce had retreated, he heard his voice speaking a truth that he had not known, words that he would never have formed. Was that his truth, were those even his words at all?

Taking the backseat to his subconscious was an eerie feeling, but it was peaceful, too. Safe. At least temporarily disconnected from his body, he had no feelings. They belonged to someone else, someone not him, and thus, in this moment there was no danger.

At one point, about the time Tony was trying to dismiss his inner monster as 'anger management issues,' he had thought he could feel anger trying to creep in, slow and insidious. But it couldn't touch him, not then, not here.

Bruce didn't turn to watch Tony walk out. He was having some trouble communicating with his body that it needed to move at all. Slowly, over the span of several minutes, he regained enough awareness of his limbs that he was able to maneuver himself into a more-or-less upright position.

Almost immediately upon standing, though, his knees buckled and he fell, landing on the recently-vacated couch.

What the fuck just happened?

And he wasn't referring to his collapse.

Bruce was no stranger to feeling empty. It was a state he generally strived for. Indeed, to be free of all emotion had once been one of his goals, hell, it had been his one goal. When it had become clear that it was something he was never going to achieve, he had put a bullet in his mouth without any regret or hesitation. Better to be dead, than to be prone to unpredictable bouts of inhuman monstrosity.

That hadn't worked out, obviously.

So, emptiness wasn't concerning. It was actually desirable, a necessary state that this whole debacle with Tony was threatening to dismantle. But that feeling, like he had ceased to exist completely? That his words, his actions, did not belong to him? That deep, impenetrable hollowness? That was new. And...maybe more than a little disturbing.

Because he couldn't quite remember, exactly, what he'd said to Tony. He had vague impressions, mostly. Apparently it had been pretty awful, though, if the billionaire had just walked out. Tony wasn't really one to let things rest. If Bruce had freaked him out that badly...

Well, there was at least one possible solution. "JARVIS?"

"Yes, sir?" the AI responded promptly.

"Do you have security footage of this room?"

"I do, sir. It is available on any computer with access to the mainframe."

Well, that would be easy enough to access.

But did he want to?

Actually, no, Bruce thought, I don't want to know. Not right now. But...I should probably just get it over with. If he didn't know what had happened, he'd never be able to deal with it.

After he had seen the footage, Bruce found that he felt about as nauseated and overwhelmed as Tony looked on the screen in front of him. And he thought that it was kind of cute that he had believed for a minute that he'd be able to deal with this at all.

What the hell, Banner? Why did you say all of that? Have you gone completely insane?

Given the recent string of events, that didn't seem too far out of the realm of possibility.

And that was too much to deal with. On top of everything else, Bruce couldn't handle that, too.

He only had one coping mechanism, really.

So he ran.

* * *

Tony had stopped by the kitchen to grab his tequila on the way to his room. He left the shot glass on the counter; it seemed like an unnecessary formality. There was something in the back of his mind (and it sounded an awful lot like Pepper, now that he was thinking about it) that was lecturing him on the idiocy of treating head trauma with alcohol. In fact, the Pepper-voice was getting pretty insulting about it.

But he tuned it out. Because this was the best goddamn idea he'd had all day, better even than it was the first time he'd had it.

That's because your instinct for self-preservation is 'lacking,' dumbass.

(Raging alcoholism)

What the fuck ever.

Tony took his tequila and stalked back to his room, carefully avoiding all mirrors and other reflective surfaces. It felt like his whole head had swollen to twice its normal size. He didn't really want to look at it. Not until later, if ever. His face had been relegated to this list of 'things I cannot fucking deal with right now.'

At the top of that list, of course, was Bruce Banner, Ph.D.

Because, seriously, what was wrong with him?

Tony flopped on his bed, wincing at the jolt of pain it sent shooting through his head. He took a swig of tequila, hoping it would help.

Aspirin would probably be more effective, moron, said the Pepper-voice.

He knew that.

His thoughts turned back to Bruce. As far as he could tell (and Christ, was it hard to tell, that man was a fucking enigma), Bruce felt something for him. But he was holding back. No, that wasn't quite right. Fear and self-loathing had him almost physically shackled, unable to act. And he had somehow become convinced that pursuing a relationship would unavoidably result in tragedy and destruction. Bruce didn't even think that Tony could be attracted to him at all, had in his mind twisted Tony's feelings into something sick and self-destructive.

Something your subconscious couldn't even admit to itself...

Tony took another sip from the bottle and muttered to himself, "Jesus, that guy's got issues."

Well, that was fairly evident. Bruce had made it pretty clear over the last couple of days, and especially in the last half-hour, that he was seriously fucked in the head. The problem was that Tony didn't know what, if anything, he could do about it. Or should do about it.

Maybe Bruce was right, and this thing shouldn't happen. It might not be good for either of them, not really.

But...

The slow burn of desire he had felt for Bruce for weeks had exploded into an uncontrollable conflagration of want and need. Now that he had had a taste, he wanted more, even if it was toxic.

Tony smirked and finished off the tequila. Maybe Bruce had been right about him, and he was bent on self-destruction. It didn't feel that way, though. It felt warm, and hazy, and right.

...Or maybe that was the booze.

His mind, unfettered by the alcohol, became quickly occupied with the long list of things he intended to do with his physicist, once he'd convinced him to give this a shot (and it was only a matter of time, Tony knew, because he'd never been denied something he really wanted).

His fantasizing ground to a halt, though, when his mind drifted back to the blank way Bruce had addressed him, the emptiness that had practically been leaking from his pores, the quiet, understated self-loathing that had suffused through his words.

That was something that he was going to have to address. Because something fundamental in Bruce was wrong, out of place. And if Tony ever wanted to get to the fun part, to all the things he had planned, he was going to have to find what was broken and fix it.

He was Tony Stark, damn it. He could fix anything.

Drifting into an uneasy sleep, it didn't occur to him, not even for a moment, that he might not be in the best position to do that.

Tony had never really thought too much about the phrase "the blind leading the blind," after all.

He would, though.

* * *

Tony was awakened much sooner than he would have liked.

Why didn't people respect his day-drinking and FUBAR sleeping habits?

His phone was ringing, but it was on vibrate. The only reason it woke him up at all was that it had vibrated off the table next to the bed and landed on a precarious stack of books and magazines, which had of course tipped over and scared him half to death.

Blindly, unwilling to open his eyes just yet, he reached over the side of the bed, running his fingers across the floor until he found the damn thing.

Phone now in hand, he slowly pried his eyes open and squinted at the overly-bright backlight. He tried to make out who was calling. It took him too long, though, and the call went to voicemail.

When his eyes had adjusted to the light, he saw that he had 12 missed calls. And he now had 12 new voicemails.

Fuck. Only two people were that persistent, and neither one was someone he wanted to miss 12 calls from.

As he was trying to decide if he should listen to his messages or just end his life, his phone started to vibrate in his hand.

It was Fury.

Well, out of the two of them (the other one being Pepper), Fury was the one Tony thought he'd rather have pissed off at him. So that was good. He didn't even want to think about what would happen if he missed 12 calls from Pepper.

Tony reluctantly answered. He didn't even get to use the snappy greeting he'd planned, because as soon as the call connected, Fury barked, "Where the hell have you been?"

"Uh...drunk," he admitted, and immediately regretted it.

But Fury didn't even acknowledge he'd spoken. And that was probably bad. Fury never missed an opportunity to bitch at Tony, not if he could help it.

"I need you to come in," the director stated. "Preferably now."

"Why? What's up?"

"I'd rather do the briefing in person."

So it was really bad.

"And Stark? Bring Banner. He's not answering his damn phone either."

"Sure. Give me an hour."

"Ten minutes, Stark."

Tony didn't even think that was possible, what with traffic and distance, and his complete lack of desire to put forth any kind of effort to hurry. But he just replied, "Whatever."

It was going to be an hour.

Fury hung up; Tony thought the man needed some lessons in phone etiquette.

"JARVIS," Tony said, slowly and gracelessly extracting himself from his bed, "Could you tell Bruce that Fury wants to have a meeting ASAP?"

"Dr. Banner is no longer on the premises, sir."

Tony stopped in the middle of his trek to the bathroom. "What?"

"Dr. Banner is no longer on the premises, sir. He left almost an hour ago."

"Where did he go?" Bruce didn't leave often, but it wasn't unheard of. He generally didn't go far, though. One of his favorite haunts was a bookstore down at the end of the block that he frequented because they served fifteen varieties of caffeine-free coffee.

"His travel arrangements seem to indicate South America, sir."

So, further than the end of the block, then.

Tony had serious doubts that he'd be able to retrieve Bruce from wherever the fuck he'd managed to go and still make it to Fury's meeting in an hour. Especially inebriated and possibly (though not likely, really, right?) concussed.

But, fuck it, he could try.

* * *

**Please review. Otherwise, I won't know how this is going, and I'll drown in an ocean of uncertainty. Or something.**


	5. Bad Plans and Terrible Decisions

**Edited 7/2/13**

**Warnings: language, badly-written proto-romance between two guys.**

**Thanks to my beta, irite, for being awesome and supportive, as always.**

**Unfortunately, I still do not own the Avengers.**

* * *

Tracking Bruce was stunningly easy.

Of course, for Tony, there was very little in life that wasn't stunningly easy. But this particular task had been made far easier by Bruce's uncharacteristic oversight—not only had he brought his phone with him, he had left it on.

Tony hadn't really been expecting an answer when he'd asked JARVIS, "Where is Bruce right now?" He'd thought he'd have to start hacking traffic satellites or something. So when JARVIS had given him a set of coordinates, Tony had been shocked into stillness. "Wait, what?"

He hadn't even begun to imagine that it could be so easy.

"That is Dr. Banner's exact location, sir. I am updating in real time."

"He has his phone with him."

"Yes, sir."

"And it's on?"

"Yes, sir."

Tony found that incredibly disturbing. Because Bruce knew how to vanish, had been doing it for years. This kind of carelessness was not like him, and it spoke volumes about his state of mind. It told of hurried desperation, of unthinking panic.

And those things were really hard to reconcile with the cold, detached indifference that Tony had witnessed earlier.

What the fuck is going on with him?

Tony briefly considered calling. But Bruce had apparently been ignoring incoming calls, at least, he'd been ignoring Fury's calls. Tony didn't really imagine that Bruce wanted to talk to him either (You think, Stark?). And if he called, Bruce might be inspired to shut his phone off, and then he'd be back to hacking satellites, or something equally unfortunate.

Instead, then, he got into the suit. It wasn't exactly subtle, but it was the fastest way to get from point A to point B, and he was probably going to need it for whatever Fury wanted, anyway.

Tony had JARVIS continue to track Bruce, and soon he was coming up on the physicist's location. He ended up at a pier. Apparently, Bruce had been intending to leave the country via ship. That was smart; it was a hell of a lot harder to track than if he went by air. Not that Tony couldn't have done it, it just would have been damn inconvenient.

As he came up behind him, Tony could see that Bruce was negotiating with a man, trying to make some kind of travel arrangements. When he caught sight of Tony, though, the man backed away from Bruce slowly, then turned and flat-out ran.

Bruce sighed heavily, obviously, his posture settling into something limp and defeated. Without turning, he greeted him, "Hey, Tony."

Tony landed several feet behind him, with far less grace than he could have managed if tequila wasn't his sole source of nutrients for the day, and walked the rest of the distance between them. Trying not to be too insulted by the lackluster greeting, he said, "You know, if you wanted to go on vacation, Banner, you could have just asked for the time off. No need for all this secrecy."

Bruce didn't reply, and didn't turn around, so Tony continued, "Course, there's no guarantee that you would have gotten the time off. Busy time of year for superheroes and all. Can't spare anyone at the moment." Still, he got no reply. Becoming irritated, he reached out and grabbed Bruce's arm. "Come on, let's go. Fury needs us."

Bruce went completely rigid and yanked his arm back like he'd been burned.

But he still didn't speak. And that was really annoying. "The fuck, Banner? Look, our last conversation was really awkward. But no matter how hard you want to pretend otherwise, I'm right here, so why don't we just move on to the next part, where you, I don't know, maybe yell at me or something? I don't care, just do something, Jesus, we don't have time for this."

Slowly, Bruce turned to face him. "Are you drunk? Again?"

He hadn't been expecting that. And he didn't see how it was relevant. "Um. No. Definitely not. More like 'still.' Come on, that's not the point."

Bruce chuckled. "Wow. Between you and me, Fury's really got a crack team working for him. Best of the best, right here. So what's he need?"

Well, Tony should have known better than to expect Bruce to actually address whatever was going on with him. He only did that when he was completely out of it, which apparently wasn't now. "Yeah, he called me like a dozen times. Said he called you, too."

"I didn't bring my phone."

"Uh, yeah. You did. How do you think I found you so fast?"

Bruce clearly hadn't thought about that. With a puzzled look on his face, he reached into his pocket. When he pulled his phone out, he looked surprised. "What the hell...I know I took this out of my pocket. I left it on the desk..."

Tony smirked. "It's your subconscious, Bruce. Working against you. Clearly you wanted to be rescued. Just roll with it."

Bruce glared at him, and Tony was so relieved at the show of emotion that he didn't even stop to consider the issues associated with pissing Bruce off. "So I'm rescuing you. Look, just...don't run. I don't know what you're so scared of. I can back off, if you want. You could have just said that."

Bruce hadn't said that, because it wasn't what he wanted, not really. But he just gave Tony that wry smile, and replied, "Sure. Let's try that."

Tony knew that was all he was going to get out of Bruce, because Bruce didn't talk about these things unless he couldn't help it.

Tony sighed. Well, if backing off was what it was going to take to keep Bruce on this continent, he could make an attempt. Anyway, they had a more pressing issue, as much as Tony hated to admit it. "So are you ready to go save the world, cupcake, or do you want to brood a while longer?"

Bruce shrugged, and Tony could almost see him compartmentalizing, regaining his equilibrium. Whatever had been going on for the last couple of hours wasn't going on anymore.

Tony wondered when, not if, it would happen again.

"Sure. But if you try and pick me up and fly with me, I'm going to make sure everyone knows that you're responsible for whatever happens."

Tony was pleased that Bruce sounded almost like normal. But it wasn't close enough for him to press his luck by pushing the physicist's buttons.

They ended up taking a cab.

* * *

"So, by 'missing,' what do you mean, exactly?"

Fury glared at him. "Cut the shit, Stark."

Tony thought that was a little harsh; it had been a legitimate question. "I'm sorry, I don't see how you can just go and lose a prisoner who's that fucking crazy and that fucking dangerous."

Thor at least looked chagrined. "It was not our intention, I assure you."

"Why was he here, exactly?" Clint asked. "Isn't that something you should have told us?"

Thor sighed. "Loki's punishment for his actions was to be stripped of his powers and banished here, in much the same way I was. There was no reason to involve you—"

"The fuck there wasn't," Fury growled. Fucking Asgardian arrogance.

Thor continued as if the director hadn't spoken, "—Because Heimdall was watching him, and Heimdall sees all. But..."

"But apparently he doesn't, because now that psycho is just running around somewhere and no one knows where," Tony supplied, in what he thought was a helpful way. "Is he even still here?"

"He must be," Thor replied. "He cannot leave, unless he has found some way to regain his powers...and I don't think he has. He would not be able to keep something like that to himself. His need to gloat has often been his undoing."

"So how long are we talking? Like, one or two days? How long's he been missing? Where was the last place you know he was?" Trust Natasha to ask the important questions.

"I believe he has been missing for three Midgardian weeks."

"Three weeks." Fury didn't sound impressed. "Three weeks, and we're just hearing about this now?"

"We...have been attempting to locate him on our own. But, we have conceded defeat."

"Yeah, whatever. And where did you last see him?"

"He was in the state of Pennsylvania."

"Can you be a little more specific?"

"I fear I cannot."

"You can't. Man, you guys really know how to handle your parolees."

Thor was not familiar with that word, and Fury strangely wasn't in the mood to educate him. "We need to figure out where he was and where he went. Anyone have any ideas?"

Tony did. "I might be able to find him. Depends. There's a couple of different angles I could take. But I might start with—"

Fury waved him off. "Do it. I don't care how, just go."

That was kind of abrupt. But Tony stood, reasonably pleased to be dismissed; these meetings were always insufferably boring.

Even when they were talking about extremely dangerous escaped prisoners.

"Take Banner with you," Fury added as an afterthought.

Well, that was even better.

* * *

Bruce had learned, from extensive experience, that you could always count on things to get fucked up.

Even if it seemed like a plan was rock solid, there was inevitably potential for it to go irreparably wrong.

So he wasn't surprised that the Asgardians' plan for Loki—which hadn't been rock solid at all—had gotten fucked up.

If he was anything, he was a little disappointed that he had been dismissed from the meeting so soon. It had looked like Fury was about to blow a gasket, and watching the director of SHIELD take a few swings at a demigod would have been entertaining.

Alas, he had returned to Stark Tower, and now he was back to being Bruce Banner, Ph.D., and everything that entailed. In a way, it was a good thing, because working had parameters, normalcy...he knew what he was supposed to be doing, and the routine of it was grounding. Distracting.

And he needed to be distracted.

For a number of reasons. One of the most important of which was that he was apparently losing it. And clinging to some shred of routine and normalcy was, he feared, the only thing stopping him from falling back into that nothingness that had consumed him earlier. He thought it would probably be best if that never happened again.

The other reason he needed to be distracted was Tony Stark. Because if he thought about what was going on between them for too long, it was going to exacerbate the whole going-insane thing. It wasn't Tony's fault, but it sure as hell wasn't helping anything. All those emotions flying around were just dangerous. Bruce knew he had to get a handle on them, but without that frightening loss of self. And until he knew he could do that, this shit with Tony had to stop.

Tony had said he would back off. That was good. It was a start.

But Bruce knew he couldn't control Tony, not really. And he apparently couldn't control himself, control what he wanted. Because he didn't want this thing to stop, even though logic and self-preservation were screaming that it had to.

Really, Bruce didn't know if there was anything about this situation that he could control. It would be smarter to run, safer, but for some reason he was here. It was a mistake, a terrible choice, and he chafed against it, but told himself all the while that this was somehow going to work out.

He had no idea how, though. Looks like your planning skills are right up there with the Asgardians', Banner.

Yeah, this had a lot of potential to get fucked up, too.

* * *

"All right, JARVIS," Tony said, after several minutes of intense typing. "Run it with those parameters against all the newspapers in the country for cities with populations more than 50,000 people. No, wait, 25,000. Start with Pennsylvania, obviously. Save the results to a new folder."

"Certainly, sir. I estimate that this endeavor will take one hour and forty-three minutes to complete."

"Great. Let me know when you're done. Or if you come across something particularly relevant."

"Of course, sir."

And then Tony turned to Bruce. "Figured there's no point in building some kind of high-tech tracking device to find that psycho when a glorified Google search might do the same thing."

Bruce shrugged, conceding the point. "But when have you ever passed up the opportunity to build a high-tech anything?"

If it wasn't for the tense set of the physicist's shoulders, Tony would have thought that everything between them was completely back to normal.

It wasn't though.

Standing, Tony asked, "You want a drink? No? All right." He was going to have one anyway. Today was going too fucking badly not to. And he was getting way too damn close to 'completely sober.'

'Being sober' was on his list of 'things I cannot fucking deal with right now.' That list seemed to be growing at an alarming rate. And that was a problem in and of itself, but alas, also one that Tony couldn't deal with right now.

Crossing the room, Tony continued, "The way I figure it, he's been missing for three weeks. Doesn't seem like there's a particular point in hurrying now." He poured himself a glass of...something that he pulled out of a filing cabinet of all places, and took a drink. "Ugh, that's awful. There's a lesson for you, Bruce, never drink anything that comes out of a filing cabinet."

Bruce hadn't really needed that lesson. "Thanks. I'll keep that in mind." He shot Tony an unmistakably judgmental look that Tony ignored completely. But, thinking about it, Bruce decided that he wasn't really in a place where he could judge other peoples' bad life choices, not after his particularly awful decision to stay here, so he didn't say anything, just tapped a few keys on the keyboard in front of him.

It took almost half a minute for him to notice that Tony was staring at him. "What?"

"Can't I just enjoy the view?" As it turned out (and Tony already knew this, had known it for most of his life), 'backing off' really wasn't Tony's thing.

"...No. And that was terrible." Bruce found the flirting was a lot harder to ignore, now that he knew Tony actually meant it. "Don't you have something better you should be doing?"

"Nah. I have one hour and forty-three minutes, well, forty-one minutes, of free time. And some pretty good ideas about how I want to spend it." Tony leaned casually against one of the tables.

Really? After all of this shit, he can't just let this go. We talked about this. Bruce stood, and began to pace. "Look," he began angrily, "I thought I was pretty clear—"

"Crystal—"

"That this couldn't happen, and I wish—"

"Yeah, but your reasoning sucked—"

"You would just drop it. I mean, yeah, maybe—"

"Um, have we met? I don't drop things—"

"I might find you attractive, and maybe—"

"You know, I don't think you ever mentioned that—"

"If I wasn't like this, there could have been something—"

"Jesus, Bruce, there's nothing wrong with you—"

"But I am like this and I am not going to do this, Tony—"

"I'm sorry, if you give me a rational reason, maybe—"

"I'm too dangerous, and this is too dangerous, and one of us needs to be responsible—"

"Yeah, still waiting for the rational reason—"

"You said you were going to back off—"

"I did back off. I backed off for like, two hours—"

"Do you ever just shut up?"

"I think when I'm sleeping—" And Bruce turned mid stride to face him, abruptly closing the distance between them in two steps. Before Tony could make even one more immensely clever quip, Bruce silenced him by covering his mouth with his own.

The kiss was hungry and desperate, and even though the table edge was digging into his back hard enough to bruise and Bruce had bitten his lip nearly hard enough to draw blood, Tony thought that this was the best way that anyone had ever chosen to get him to stop talking.

Bruce pulled back after several seconds, looking confused. "Oh my God, what the hell am I doing, I can't—"

This was the exact point where things had always gone awry, so Tony decided distraction was in order. If they could get past this point, maybe things would go better. A little breathless, Tony interrupted, "Was that really so bad?"

Bruce stopped, and apparently ran some kind of system-wide diagnostics, because it took a minute for him to respond. "...No."

Something that evidently terrified Bruce to admit, but Tony took it in stride.

He said, "Good," and dove in for another kiss, turning them so that Bruce was pushed up against the table. Tony wasn't going to give Bruce time to think about this, because as far as he could tell, the only thing that was standing between them was Bruce's thinking.

He was wrong, though. There was something else.

Bruce responded eagerly at first, even running one hand down Tony's back, getting it tangled in his shirt at the base of his spine. Tony responded in kind, resting one hand against Bruce's chest, feeling his heart beating out an increasingly fast rhythm.

Wait...that might be a problem. Tony didn't know what triggered the transformation, didn't know if Bruce even knew the exact physiological process, but he did know it had been related to adrenaline. And adrenaline increased the heart rate.

Tony pulled out of the kiss, taking a stumbling half-step back. "Bruce."

When the physicist lifted his head to meet his gaze, Tony saw bright, acid green.

Without thinking, he took another step back, averting his eyes.

It wasn't that he had forgotten about this little issue, fuck, how could he? Of course he hadn't forgotten about it. Maybe...neglected. Ignored. But not forgotten.

That didn't make it better. It actually made it worse.

What does this say about you, Stark, really? You didn't even think about this before, did you? He's been trying to tell you, and you just ignored him.

(Something your subconscious couldn't even admit to itself)

Now, with those green eyes burning into his memory, Tony felt a spike of fear that froze him in place. Oh, he was thinking about it, now. Sure, he trusted Hulk, but he wasn't stupid enough to say that the Other Guy was "safe." Something that strong could never be safe. He didn't think that the Hulk would kill him intentionally, not like Bruce did, but by accident...anything could happen.

For a half-second, Tony saw this thing through Bruce's eyes, and he saw how stupidly dangerous it really was.

That half-second of paralyzed clarity was all it took.

"You're afraid of me," Bruce observed, closing his eyes.

When he opened them again, they had gone back to brown, and Tony wondered if maybe they hadn't changed at all, that he had imagined the whole thing.

When he spoke, Bruce didn't sound upset, or angry or anything. Except maybe...relieved. Like it was a load off his shoulders that Tony had finally come to his senses.

It probably was.

Still, Tony denied,"No, I'm not afraid of you, I just—"

"It's okay. Don't worry about it." Bruce shrugged, the very embodiment of apathy, and Tony couldn't tell if the indifference was feigned. Fake or not, though, it was infuriating. Because no one wants to go from kissing to "I don't care if you run away screaming and never come back" in three seconds flat. It was disturbing, and kind of insulting.

"Fuck you, Banner. What, I'm supposed to think you just don't care? Do you care about anything?"

"Ideally? No. But that keeps getting fucked up." And the way he said it, like it was so obvious, left no doubt in Tony's mind that, in this moment at least, it was the absolute truth.

And he couldn't even start to puzzle that out. Bruce was sending so many mixed signals that it went beyond confusing, into dizzying, nauseating, disorienting. For someone whose relationships had, to this point, been shallow to the point of complete inconsequence, dealing with something this complicated was daunting, maybe insurmountably so.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, sirs," JARVIS spoke, breaking the tension that had been growing between them in the lengthening silence. The AI really did sound regretful. "I believe you may want to see this."

On the largest screen in the room, JARVIS had pulled up the front page of a newspaper from a small town in New York.

Bruce and Tony read the headline, then looked at the accompanying picture. Their conversation from a few minutes ago, the awkwardness, the strain, was completely forgotten as Tony burst into laughter. Bruce looked like he couldn't tell if he wanted to laugh with him, or chastise him.

He settled for saying, "No fucking way."

They'd found Loki.

* * *

**So, this chapter. Went kind of badly. But here it is.**

**Please review? Please?**


	6. Road Trip

**Edited 7/2/13**

**Warnings: language, as usual. I think that's about it.**

**Thanks to my beta, irite, for being awesome (as usual) and for continuing to appreciate the phrase "pissy little bitch."**

**So, this chapter's a little different in tone and content from the previous ones, but I promise we'll get back on track for the next chapter. Trust me; I actually _almost _know where this is going.**

**I do not own the Avengers.**

* * *

After the whole Chitauri incident, Fury had done a damn good job keeping a lid on things.

Sure, it was pretty obvious that something had happened. And aliens had clearly been involved. Beyond that, though, very little information had made its way to the public, and Fury had done his damnedest to discredit any that actually had. Considering the fact that a battle had been fought in New York, with millions of cameras and camera phones around, he did a damn good job.

With that in mind, Fury thought that this situation wasn't entirely unexpected.

Because almost no one would really recognize Loki, even if he, for example, stood in the middle of an outdoor café and threatened to kill everyone while proclaiming to be the rightful king of Asgard and/or a Norse god.

And since no one would recognize him, no one would know that he actually was a Norse god. In fact, under this particular set of circumstances, that kind of behavior would look an awful lot more like a psychotic episode than anything particularly malevolent or insidious.

That Loki had been largely rendered incapable of following through with his threats of death, destruction and subjugation added to the dangerous-delusional image.

So, this situation wasn't entirely unexpected. But it was still really weird. And really, really unfortunate.

Tony, for his part, had felt guilty for laughing, he really had. But that had lasted only until he showed the headline and associated photograph to the rest of the Avengers, and Clint had literally fallen out of his chair with the force of his hysterics.

Granted, the rest of their reactions were a lot more subdued, and ranged from completely shocked to completely confused.

Thor, in particular, was not amused.

"How was this allowed to happen? My brother is not—he is not—"

"A homeless, crazy bum?" Clint supplied, before dissolving into giggles again.

At Thor's glare, he sobered, although it was clear that his composure was tenuous.

Bemused, Fury read aloud, "Homeless Man Threatens Patrons of Karl's Kafé; Claims to be Norse God." He shook his head, saying, "I'm going to be honest, people; I have no fucking idea what to do with this."

Clint smirked. "I've got some ideas."

Unsurprisingly, no one wanted to hear them. Fury and Thor shot him nearly identical dirty looks, and silence reigned for several seconds as everyone else pondered how to handle this situation with causing an inter-realm incident.

Finally, Natasha looked up, finished reading the article. "From what this says, he demanded service and became, er, aggravated when they expressed some reservations. One of the waiters said he looked homeless or something, like he couldn't pay. So Loki threatened to kill everyone in the restaurant and to 'enslave their progeny.' The owner called the cops, they hauled him in."

Fury nodded. "Then what happened to him?"

Natasha shrugged. Tony stepped in, not bothering to hide the wide smile on his face. "I found a follow-up story from a few days later. The cops took him, but they decided he had some kind of schizophrenia or some shit. Sent him to the hospital, who sent him to a psychiatric hospital a few hours away."

Clint, unable to restrain himself any longer, burst into laughter again. "Oh my God, they committed him. Priceless!"

Thor was still not amused. "What have they done to my brother? How dare they treat him in this way? I do not understand. They committed him to what? What are you speaking of?"

For some reason, everyone looked at Tony for an explanation. He had none. He had never imagined that this would be one of the 'Earth Lessons' he had to give Thor. Still, he felt obliged to at least try. "Schizophrenia...it's a mental illness. People who have it lose touch with reality, start seeing and hearing shit that's not real."

"My brother is not insane, Stark."

Well, for once, Thor had caught on pretty damn fast. That was good. "No, he's not. Well, yes, he is, but not like this. But you have to think of how he sounds to normal people when he starts going on about world domination and mass murder and being a god. It's more likely that he's insane than it is that he is actually a god. Horses and zebras and shit, yeah?"

Bruce nodded, but the rest of the group looked completely baffled. Tony waved them off. "It's not important. Anyway, as far as I've been able to determine, your brother is currently in residence at the Cedar Hills Psychiatric Clinic and Hospital. At least, given the date of the last article, and what I can remember about New York's involuntary commitment laws, he should still be there."

Fury looked like he was thinking of asking why Tony knew anything at all about New York's involuntary commitment laws, but thought better of it. Instead, he asked, "What do we do about this?"

The question had been aimed primarily at Thor, who was looking progressively more irate, but it was Clint who answered. "Fuck it, leave him there. I think that'll work out just fine."

Tony was inclined to agree, but his scientific curiosity was getting in the way. "What I don't get is, how did Mr. I'm-Always-Watching-You lose track of him? We found him easily enough, why can't your supernatural stalker see him anymore?"

Looking annoyed at Clint's suggestion and at Tony's disrespect, Thor replied, "I do not know, Stark. My brother has hidden his activities from Heimdall before, but that was when he possessed his powers. I do not know how he is concealing himself, now. And that is troubling to me. I fear for my brother's safety." Six people looked at him, dumbfounded, but he either didn't notice their bewilderment or just didn't care. He finished with the recommendation, "I feel we should investigate."

Fury, as much as he had liked the idea of just leaving Loki where he was, was forced to agree. Not because he gave a shit about Loki's safety, but because leaving Loki unsupervised was a bad idea, even if he was in a psychiatric hospital. As much as Thor and the other Asgardians might think otherwise, Fury knew that Loki was just as dangerous without his powers as he was with them. Manipulative bastard. So, resigned, he said, "You're going to have to get him out. Or," he added quickly, seeing the uproar that statement was about to cause, "You have to at least go see what's up with him. Where is this place, exactly?"

"West," Tony replied, gesturing vaguely in the wrong direction. "Five or six hours' drive, maybe."

Fury nodded. "I want you there ASAP. Move it!"

* * *

Bruce had thought that traveling by air was a terrible idea.

Now, he had come to believe that traveling by car was worse. Especially with Tony behind the wheel.

This arrangement concerned him for two reasons. First, Tony's sobriety was, at the moment...questionable. Bruce didn't think he was still drunk, per se...but for some reason all he could think about were those scare-tactic billboards that screamed 'Buzzed Driving is Drunk Driving.' The second reason was, of course, that Tony's driving was, in general, questionable. Bruce wasn't sure which state had issued the man a license, but he thought that whichever one it was, it ought to be removed from the Union.

They had to split into two groups, since there was no vehicle currently on the market that could comfortably accommodate both Thor and Steve. Clint and Natasha had taken the demigod, and Tony and Bruce had taken the good captain.

Bruce had tried to get into the car with Clint and Natasha, but Thor took up the entire back seat, and Clint had said (in reference to Tony) that there was "no fucking way I am letting that asshole drive me anywhere," so Bruce had ended up with Tony. He'd even tried pulling the "bad driving might make me angry" card, but Clint had just patted him on the shoulder and given him a sympathetic smile before sliding into the passenger's seat beside Natasha and slamming the car door authoritatively.

Of course, Bruce wasn't going to share the real reason he didn't want to spend five hours in the car with Tony. He couldn't even explain this simultaneous attraction and repulsion to himself, how the polarity was tearing him apart. He couldn't share that, couldn't even find the words to describe the dichotomy within him, the fear, the panic...or how those things were all tied inextricably to Tony Fucking Stark.

Although...he thought he should have found a way to do it. Because he was putting them in an insane amount of danger with his lack of self-control, and they deserved to be on their guard. He could handle that, their fear. It really would have been better. That Tony, at least, had come to see the danger inherent in what they were doing...that was good.

At least with this new case, they all had something to focus on. Bruce needed the grounding, and maybe if Tony were distracted, he'd back off. He'd stop being so stupidly...self-destructive.

As if he were privy to Bruce's thoughts (and trying to prove Bruce's theory wrong), Tony's driving was becoming more erratic. He was glaring out into the darkness ahead of him, racing down the road at almost 80 m.p.h., apparently taking every curve and dip in the terrain as a personal challenge.

This distracted Bruce momentarily from his angst, and he found suddenly that he was feeling a little green. And not for the usual reason. Tony's driving was causing a discrepancy between his sense of sight and his sense of balance. One that needed to be rectified. Preferably without invoking his poison defense mechanisms.

Upon consideration, that didn't seem likely, though.

"I think I am going to throw up," he announced calmly, trying to put some distance between his consciousness and his rolling stomach.

Tony did not pull over, or even slow down. He did not even acknowledge that Bruce had spoken.

Well, that was kind of rude.

Steve apparently felt the same way. He'd taken Tony's driving with his usual good grace, but now that he knew Bruce was uncomfortable, he stepped in. "What the hell, Tony? Pull over."

The speedometer inched up towards 90, and they whipped around a sharp curve, nearly skidding off the road.

Bruce's stomach turned. He groaned, trying to maintain the breathing exercise he'd been doing for the last 40 miles. He wasn't sure what was worse, the nausea or the rising worry that Tony's driving really was going to cause an 'incident.'

"Stark," Steve said, sounding angry now instead of annoyed, "Pull this car over. Now."

"Why?" Tony asked, grinning, focused intently on the road in front of him. "Are you afraid, Cap?"

"What? No. But Dr. Banner is—"

"Is what? Afraid? Yeah, you're damn right he is, he's—"

"No, I think he's—"

Bruce interrupted them by rolling the window down, sticking his head out, and vomiting magnificently down the side of the car. At almost 90 m.p.h., the results weren't pretty, and when he was done, Bruce threw himself back into the seat, panting. He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, looking thoroughly disgusted.

Instead of abruptly braking, Tony at least had the decency to slowly decelerate. "Fuck! Jesus, I didn't actually think—"

Steve slapped the back of Tony's head. "Nice, Stark. Really nice. What's your problem? Are you drunk or something?"

Tony didn't think he was, but the amount of time he took to consider his answer (or maybe that he had to consider at all) was damning.

"Oh. You are. Stop the damn car, Tony. Are you insane?"

Tony pulled over. "I'm not drunk, why does everyone keep saying that? I'm just—"

But Steve interrupted him by getting out of the car and standing impatiently outside the driver's side door. Tony heaved a sigh, but got out and moved to the back seat. When everyone was resituated, Steve said, "Save the excuses for someone who cares. Are you all right, Dr. Banner?"

Bruce took several deep breaths before answering dryly, "I have vomit on my shirt, and I am regretting my choice of road trip snacks. But yes. We might want to find a car wash, however. And...a toothbrush, time permitting."

"Shit, Bruce, I'm sorry—"

But Bruce was staring pointedly out the window, his expression frozen somewhere between 'pissed off' and 'frustrated.'

Tony felt like an asshole.

* * *

Tony knew that he probably shouldn't have been driving, but he'd never been one to let his BAC get in the way of doing what he wanted.

And he had to do something about the flare of annoyance that ignited in his chest when he noticed how hard Bruce was trying to get into the other car. That asshole. Trying to run, instead of owning up to the fact that he was being a pissy little bitch. It was infuriating.

As were several other things. For example, the hot-and-cold thing was pretty hard to deal with. The I-can't-do-this-hey-let's-kiss-oh-maybe-not thing was...irksome. The Tony-you're-an-alcoholic thing was really damn irritating.

But the I'm-okay-with-you-hating-me thing was the one that Tony could not handle.

For one, he didn't hate Bruce, wasn't afraid of him, even though Bruce clearly thought he should be.

More importantly, though, Bruce's delusional self-loathing was ridiculous.

Tony knew that getting angry about it wasn't going to help, that it was the completely wrong reaction. He should be supportive or some shit. But the hatred Bruce clearly felt for himself was so hard to stomach, so hard to watch, and Tony felt so helpless trying to deal with it that it just pissed him off.

And the more he thought about it, the more angry he became. Initially at Bruce, for being so fucked up that he couldn't even form a relationship with another person, for acting so normal, now, like everything was fine. For being so unpredictable and complicated. But Tony managed to turn his anger on himself pretty easily. Why was he so useless? Why couldn't he help Bruce, instead of just fucking everything up, over and over again? How fucking stupid was he, that he thought that this could ever possibly work?

He'd been getting good and riled up, taking his anger out on the road, before Bruce had interrupted him by barfing. After, once he'd been shaken from that train of thought, he just felt stupid. Because as helpless and useless as he felt, how was getting angry about it helpful? Tony fixed things, he was hands on, and he didn't just sit and stew. He took action.

And there were actions that he had to take if he wanted to stop screwing up. He just had to figure out what those actions were. Because they sure as shit weren't what he'd been doing so far.

The rest of the car ride passed in tense silence, giving Tony ample opportunity to consider what his next actions should be.

* * *

Steve's driving style was the polar opposite of Tony's, and their slower pace meant that they somehow managed to arrive at their location after the other car, a few minutes before midnight. Steve pulled in next to Natasha, and they all got out together and hovered around their vehicles.

Tony made a cursory attempt to talk to Bruce, to apologize for being a jackass, but Bruce wouldn't even look at him, and he didn't know if it was because of the car incident, the kissing incident, or any of the other shit that had gone down between them in the last day. Trying to figure it out was too fucking much to deal with, really, and so he gave up pretty quickly.

"I think visiting hours are over," Tony observed, looking at his watch. "What's the plan? We gonna sneak in a window and crawl through the duct system?"

Clint raised an eyebrow and looked as if he considered that to be a legitimate suggestion, but before he could say as much, Natasha rolled her eyes and stalked towards the entrance. "I thought we could try the door first," she called over her shoulder.

"Aw, Nat, that's no fun!" Clint said, but followed her. The others trailed behind them.

Just outside the door, she stopped. "Okay, here's the plan. Barton and I will do all the talking. Stark, you are explicitly forbidden from speaking. Rogers, Thor; try to look less...conspicuous. Banner...what's on your shirt?" He didn't say anything, just looked pained, so Natasha finished with, "If anyone recognizes any of you, roll with it. But try not to reveal what we're doing here. Got it?"

Everyone nodded, looking more-or-less offended by Natasha's instructions. Seeing their assent, she moved towards the entrance.

The front doors were unlocked, and so Natasha led them straight to the guard's station a few feet inside. She pulled out a badge and stated, "Natasha Romanoff, Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. We'd like to have a few words with one of your patients."

To their credit, the two security guards did not cower under Natasha's menacing glare. They calmly surveyed the eclectic group who had gathered in the entryway and then one said, "Let me call my supervisor."

He picked up the phone and had a hurried, muttered conversation, casting several glances at the assembled Avengers. The words "government agency" and "fucking weirdoes" were audible, but that was about all Tony could make out. After a few more seconds, the guard reappeared. "Come on. I'll take you upstairs."

He led them up a flight of stairs and through several locked doors before depositing them in front of the glassed-in nurses' station. He leaned in and spoke quietly to one of the nurses, who nodded and stepped out from behind the glass. "Thanks, Mike. I've got it." Looking more unsure than Tony thought was strictly necessary (they were superheroes, damn it, they weren't dangerous!), the security guard made his way back through the double doors. The nurse said, "So, what can I do for you?"

"We're with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division," Natasha replied. "We'd like to see a patient that we believe is currently being treated here."

The nurse looked at the clock. "It's after midnight, Ms...?"

"Romanoff."

"Ms. Romanoff. Why don't you come back in the morning? Many of our patients can't handle disruptions to their routine."

Clint took off his sunglasses (Tony had been wondering about them, but now suspected that Clint had been wearing them for exactly this reason). "It's kind of urgent, actually."

"Oh, really? And what's so urgent that it can't wait 8 hours?"

Tony had to hand it to him, Clint was pretty smooth. "This man is a suspect in a federal investigation. We need Mr. Stark," Clint nodded at Tony, putting a bit of extra emphasis on his name, "to nail down a positive ID so we can move forward with the case. Lives are at stake, ma'am."

Hearing Tony's name, she had jumped a little, then scrutinized the billionaire carefully. Apparently satisfied that it was, in fact, the Tony Stark, she nodded. "Fine. Let me call the doctor." She walked back into the nurses' station and picked up the phone.

Natasha and Clint looked annoyed that Tony's celebrity apparently meant more than their status as federal agents, but thought better of saying as much. This was a step in the right direction, and they would do anything to get this case moving.

Putting her hand over the mouthpiece of the receiver, she called out, "Which patient is it that you want to see?"

"Er...We're not quite sure what his real name is. He might be claiming to be the Norse god of mischief. Loki?" Clint answered.

The dark look that crossed her face was unmistakable. "Oh. Him." Tony smirked; apparently Loki had been making quite the impression.

The nurse spoke a few moments longer on the phone. When she hung up, she said through the window, "Dr. White will be down in a moment. She'll be able to set something up."

Natasha nodded. "Thank you." The nurse waved her off and went back to her paperwork.

Just over five minutes later, the doctor slipped out of a locked staircase. Without looking up from her clipboard, she spoke, "Hi. I'm Dr. White. Why don't we, uh..." Finally glancing up, she seemed a little bewildered by the size of the group. She recovered quickly, though. "Why don't we go up to my office?"

So they followed her down more hallways, and through more locked doors, until they were in her office. At her invitation, they arranged themselves on the furniture.

"So," she said, surveying the room. "You want to interview one of my patients."

It wasn't a question, but Natasha thought it merited in answer. "Yes. He's a person of interest in one of our cases."

"Really. I thought he was a suspect."

Damn, Natasha thought. I hate it when people actually have two brain cells to rub together and remember stuff like that.

"Um, that's right," Clint answered. "My partner just misspoke. Long night and all..."

But the doctor just raised an eyebrow. "Cut the crap. Why are you really here? If you're actually from the government, you're from an agency I've never heard of. And I used to work for the FBI." She paused, then added, "I'm pretty sure most of you aren't government agents. Too damn awkward. And quiet. And there's way too many of you for a simple interview. So what gives?"

Natasha was unfazed by their broken cover. She hadn't been too attached to that story, anyway. "I can call my boss and have this place on lockdown in less than an hour. But it would be a lot easier if you'd just cooperate and let us see him. Trust me, you really don't want to know more than that."

Tony expected that the doctor would object, but she just laughed. "Well, that's really honest. Can I at least see some ID?"

Clint and Natasha pulled out their matching SHIELD badges; Dr. White examined them carefully. "Okay. I'm not sure what this SHIELD is, but these look legit. And if they're not, I'll just tell my boss you coerced me. So, you can see him. But, he might not be as helpful as you seem to hope. He's on some pretty strong meds. But give me a few minutes, and if he wants to see you, then I'll let you see him. Is that all right?"

Tony, personally, could not imagine a universe in which Loki would actually want to see them.

So he figured that hell had frozen over, when Dr. White came back 15 minutes later and said, "Follow me, please."

* * *

**Thanks to everyone who's reading.**

**Please review.**


	7. Later

**Edited 7/2/13**

**Warnings: none. Well, language.**

**Thanks to irite for once again convincing me not to delete a. this chapter and b. this whole story. And for being awesome on top of that.**

**I do not own The Avengers.**

**Excessively long author's note at the end of the chapter.**

* * *

As they were walking down the hall to Loki's room, Dr. White turned to Tony and inquired, "If you don't mind me asking...what happened to your face?"

Tony figured it was probably some kind of miracle that no one had asked about it yet, and so he didn't really think he could get too offended that fate had stopped smiling on him. Still, that didn't mean he had to be particularly forthcoming. Or truthful. "Lab accident," he answered shortly, hoping that would be the end of it.

It wasn't.

Because Bruce Fucking Banner couldn't (or didn't feel compelled to...and that was really more likely) contain his disbelieving snort of laughter or his muttered "More or less."

"Okay, spill," Natasha demanded, shooting a quick look over her shoulder at the amused physicist. "We didn't ask earlier because all of this crap was going on, but now I'm curious. What's Banner's problem?"

Tony had some things, quite a few things actually, that he thought he'd like to say on that subject, but he didn't think Romanoff would appreciate his insights. In fact, her glare indicated that he should probably just tell her what she wanted to know. Fine. Whatever. No point in drawing out the inevitable. "I fell."

"On your face?" Dr. White asked, reaching for the penlight in her pocket. "How did that happen?" She stopped and faced him, shining the light into his eyes and prodding gently at his forehead.

"Um." Tony pulled back from her touch, balking at the sudden invasion of his personal space. "Don't really remember that part."

"You were drunk," she inferred.

It was not a question, Tony noted, which might have pissed him off except she was right. Which he supposed wasn't that surprising—her job entailed being pretty good at reading people, and Tony had a sneaking suspicion that he was pretty easy to read, what with the lingering scent of ethanol wafting from his pores. So he nodded, pointedly ignoring Clint, who was chuckling, and Natasha, who had muttered, "Fury teamed me up with this?"

"It's none of my business, of course, but has this happened be—"

"You're right, it's not your business," Tony cut in. "Can we just get this over with? I have things to do. People to see. You know. Stuff. That isn't here."

Used to dealing with occasionally very difficult people, White was not at all put off by his rudeness. She just raised an eyebrow. "Sure we can." She started moving again, making her way towards the end of the hall. Speaking more loudly, so that they could all hear her as she walked, White said, "Like I mentioned a few minutes ago, he's on some pretty strong medication. If he seems a little...confused, that's normal. He's been pretty agitated and aggressive. He's not currently in restraints, but it's happened." She stopped outside the last doorway in the hall, peering through the small window quickly. She seemed satisfied with whatever she saw; from his vantage point, Tony couldn't see anything.

White moved to open the door. "I'll be monitoring the conversation, in case something sets him off and he needs to be sedated again."

Clint and Natasha shared a long look, conversing with their eyes. After a moment, Natasha asked, "Could you wait in the hall?" Although it was phrased as a question, it wasn't really one.

"That's not procedure—"

"Trust me, you really don't want to hear this."

Bruce cleared his throat and added, "If you do, you might not let any of us leave."

It was a joke, but Bruce's delivery didn't quite convey that. White fixed him with a piercing look, before gazing at each of them in turn. After a moment of careful scrutiny, looking between Bruce and the others, she nodded her reluctant consent to Natasha's proposition. "Fine. But I'll be watching you closely."

Without further ado, Natasha opened the door and they all slipped inside.

* * *

Loki didn't seem out of it; that was the first thing that Bruce noticed. But then, Bruce suspected that the demigod's physiology was different enough from a human's that, maybe, drugs didn't affect him in quite the same way.

Loki was sitting up, cross-legged on his bed, staring at them with an intensity that was in no way diminished by his hospital-blue pajamas or generally rumpled appearance.

It was not until he spoke that he gave any indication that he was not entirely normal. "Brother...and friends. To what do I owe...this distinguished pleasure?"

Between the small but noticeable gaps between words, and the slight slurring of the s sounds, any vitriol that may have been present in the demigod's words was mostly lost.

Standing in front of Bruce, Tony began cracking up. He pulled out his phone. "I need to record this. It could be great."

But Steve glared at him. "Can it, Tony. No videos. We don't need to have this on the Youtube."

Everyone with enough cultural awareness to recognize the faux pas cringed. It was the first time Clint had showed any animation since walking into the room, Bruce noticed—the archer had become noticeably withdrawn since the door shut behind them.

Natasha shook her head briefly at Steve before turning to look at Loki. She looked every inch the consummate SHIELD agent as she contemplated him. When the silence had stretched to the breaking point, she said, "So. We were thinking that we'd leave you here."

Loki's eyes widened minutely, but he gave no other indication that her words disturbed him. He smirked. "I'd...prefer if you didn't. Although," and his smirk widened suddenly into a grin, his whole demeanor changing abruptly, "I have been having such fun playing with the humans."

Tony snorted. "Yeah, 'playing.' Whatever game you've got going on, it looks like you're losing." He nodded towards the soft restraints dangling unused from the side of the bed. "Nice try, though."

Loki scowled. In one swift movement, he stood, towering over the billionaire. He promptly stumbled, but he caught himself and, like a cat that's just done something awkward and uncoordinated, he pointedly pretended that nothing had happened. Tony just looked bored, staring at something over the demigod's left shoulder. "Have care how you speak, mortal." Louder, voice carrying (as if being ignored roused his ire) he continued, "Do not think for a second that I shall hesitate to end you, Stark. For—"

Whatever megalomaniacal bullshit he'd been about to spew was abruptly cut off by Thor, who wrapped his brother in a tight embrace. Loki struggled against the contact, but after a moment, he submitted. He couldn't fight Thor off when he was at full strength, and without his powers (and semi-drugged), resistance was futile.

"Um, this is cute and all, but we've kind of got something to do," Tony reminded them, his focus shifted back to the group. "Can you save the brotherly love shit for later?"

Thor straightened, shooting Tony a glare. "Forgive me. It does me well to see my brother unharmed, Stark."

Bruce wondered vaguely about Thor's priorities. But then, family's family, I guess.

"And we shall not leave him behind," Thor asserted, apparently aware of the others' unfriendly feelings towards his brother. "For who knows what injury or insult may befall him here?"

Natasha rolled her eyes, her facade, for the second time that evening, broken. "Christ, I just wanted to make him sweat a little. We can't leave him here, unfortunately. It's too dangerous."

"Too dangerous for whom, exactly?" Bruce asked. He wasn't exactly in favor of leaving Loki here, but truth be told, he wasn't exactly a fan of the idea of, well...not. "He's not really a threat..." Actually, now that he was thinking about it, the idea of leaving Loki here was actually pretty appealing. Because the trickster was damn annoying. And Bruce knew enough to understand that Loki didn't need his magic to wreak havoc.

"Not right now," Natasha agreed. "But he could become one. And we can't risk that. We have to take him in."

Loki, for his part, looked delighted with this turn of events. The wheels in his mind were clearly spinning, throwing out endless possibilities for potential courses of action.

Clint raised an eyebrow and broke his silence. "Do you think they'd drug him so we can transport him?"

Tony answered, "Might be worth a shot to ask."

And that, at least, wiped the smug grin off of Loki's face.

* * *

In the end, it turned out that no, they would not drug Loki for easier transport.

In fact, Dr. White was reluctant to release Loki to the Avengers at all. But Clint and Natasha made a few more vague threats involving excessive government intervention, and eventually the psychiatrist agreed to both release Loki and to fudge the paperwork so it looked like he'd never been admitted at all.

The next course of action was getting him back to SHIELD's headquarters.

This posed some challenge, because the vehicle situation was non-ideal. Part of this issue was specific seating requirements. For example, under no circumstances would Clint agree to ride with Loki, and Thor did not want to ride without Loki, and Natasha didn't want to go without Clint, and Bruce wanted to get away from Tony, and everyone (except Bruce) thought that Bruce should go with Loki (since if shit started going down, Bruce could take Loki out pretty easily) and so on and so forth.

Eventually, Bruce found himself in the passenger's seat, with Tony driving, and Thor and Loki squished together in the back. Bruce was pretty sure that Loki was actually in Thor's lap, because that was the only explanation he could muster for how they both fit back there.

Bruce was not sure how, exactly, Tony had ended up driving again, since everyone had agreed that he wouldn't, but the billionaire had a funny way of always getting what he wanted. And Bruce was too tired/overwhelmed/what-the-hell'd out to argue, so he let it slide with a mental shrug.

The silence in the car as they made their way back onto the highway was awkward (and maybe just a little hostile...Tony could feel Loki's eyes burning into the back of his head), so Tony turned the radio on as loud as it would go.

This lasted for exactly thirty-seven seconds, before Bruce snapped the radio back off with an irritated huff.

Tony shot him a quick look before rolling his eyes and turning it back on.

Bruce turned it back off. "Really?"

"Jesus, what's your problem?"

"I have a headache," Bruce stated, his voice flat. He didn't, but he really thought he should at this point. And that was what mattered.

"Look, if you're still mad about what happened on the way here—"

"I'm not—"

"Then just say something. Say, 'Tony, you're an asshole.'"

"Okay. Tony, you're an asshole."

"See? Was that so hard—"

"No. Let me try it again. Tony, you're an ass—"

"What happy news," interrupted Loki's bored voice from the back seat. "I was not aware that you and Banner had been married in my absence. I do believe congratulations are in order."

"Quiet, Reindeer Games," Tony snarled. "If I want input from the impotent demigod committee, I'll let you know."

Loki looked offended (his virility was above reproach, certainly), but Thor quieted him with a look. The silence returned with a vengeance. No one spoke for several miles.

Then, "What happened to your face, Stark?" Apparently, even if it was in his own self-interest, drugged-Loki was disinclined towards silence.

And altogether too curious for his own good, Tony thought. "I was drunk. I fell. On my face. Now shut it."

But of course Loki couldn't just let something like that go. "And what compelled you to consume spirits in such quantities so as to render yourself incapable of walking?"

Tony stewed in silence for several seconds. Surprisingly, it was Bruce who answered Loki's question. "He wasn't walking, he was sitting."

"...Goodness, Stark, that is impressive. But I do believe my question stands. Unlike you, apparently."

"You know—" Tony started, indignant, but Bruce interrupted him.

"We had a disagreement, that's all."

And something in his tone quieted Loki—because he was not willing to run afoul of Banner, not after their last notable encounter, and the physicist's words were suffused with...something. Maybe something dangerous, though Loki was not entirely sure. And although he settled into silence, Loki's curiosity was not assuaged, only piqued. There was something going on between those two—a 'disagreement' does not often lead one party to excessive intoxication, after all—and of course Loki would have to figure out what.

It would be entertaining, at least. Perhaps even useful.

The rest of the ride was completely silent.

* * *

They brought Loki to SHIELD's headquarters, where he was promptly ensconced in the most impoverished and spartan containment cell Fury could find. Thor went to contact his father about what he had found, Steve, Clint and Natasha went to fill out paperwork, and, lacking further assignment, Bruce and Tony returned to the Tower.

Like all of the miles of highway, the trip back to the Tower was mostly silent.

Entirely silent, in fact, except for Tony's quiet observation, "So, Loki. He's going to be a problem."

And Bruce's equally quiet reply, "I have no doubt."

Beyond that, they did not even attempt conversation, too tired from their late-night field trip and the emotionally exhausting give-and-take that had been going on between them for days.

Back at the Tower, they went their separate ways.

Bruce headed up towards his room. Tony had gotten off the elevator on the floor that housed his lab, and even though he wanted to, Bruce had refrained from suggesting that Tony head to bed instead. It was too much work, too exhausting. Because Bruce knew that Tony wasn't going to listen to him, wasn't going to stop being so stupidly selfish (one of the many take-home messages of the last twenty-four hours), so he figured he'd leave Tony to his own self-destructive habits. Live and let live, right? And maybe Tony would do the same.

And that made Bruce laugh to himself. Because Tony Stark never let anyone 'live and let live.' In fact, Bruce suspected that Tony was somehow physically incapable of doing such a thing.

He thought back to earlier (do you really want to go there? And no, he didn't, but he couldn't stop, not now that he'd started, and what was wrong with him that this was all he could think about?), how Tony would not, could not just let it go, his infatuation or whatever the hell it was that he felt for Bruce. And Bruce knew Tony had a moment of clarification, because he had seen the fear in Tony's eyes (and he should be afraid), but still Tony would not drop it.

That's because he's stupid. And selfish. And self-destructive.

All true. Well, maybe Tony wasn't stupid. Maybe he was just acting like it.

Either way, the fact remained that Tony wouldn't drop it, wouldn't just do the smart thing. Which meant that Bruce could 'live and let live' all he wanted, but if he expected the same kind of consideration from Tony, he was delusional.

And, well, he certainly wasn't delusional.

So clearly, Bruce thought, pushing open the door to his room, I'm going to need a better plan.

For several moments, he stood in the middle of his room, just thinking over the last couple of days, unsure of what to do on either a micro (Should I shower? Go to bed?) or macro (Should I stay here? Should I run?) level. Their little sojourn upstate had cleared his mind somewhat, though, had allowed him to focus on something external, and now that he was removed from the turmoil in which he'd been embroiled for days, things looked...different. Bruce knew he needed a better plan, needed some kind of plan, at least, and at the moment, he actually felt almost capable of making one.

Better get on that, Banner, before you completely lose it.

Which remained a distinct possibility.

Shaking his head, Bruce headed towards the shower. A few minutes later, under the spray, he finally settled in to consider his options.

He could run, sure. But he'd tried that, and it hadn't gone so well. Tony had the resources to find him pretty much anywhere on the planet and wouldn't hesitate to do so. Because Tony would not, or could not, drop it.

Another possibility was trying to maintain homeostasis. Well, trying to get back to homeostasis. Bruce knew he could stifle what he felt easily enough. Maybe not easily. But it could be done. So that wouldn't be a problem, not if he wouldn't let it. But Tony. Again. Would not agree to such a plan. Had, in fact, reneged on such an agreement something like five minutes into it, when Bruce had tried to get him to back off.

So what did that leave?

Bruce leaned his forehead against the wall of the shower with a sigh. Because there was one more possibility. Well, there was an infinite number of possibilities, but there was only one that would work. One that had a hope of working. Because Tony would not drop it, was stupid and selfish and self-destructive, and with all of that, there was only one solution.

He couldn't just live and let live. Because Tony wouldn't. And if he wanted to maintain control, if he wanted to maintain a grasp on this situation, he would have to confront it. He couldn't run, he couldn't ignore it.

Because Tony always got what he wanted, didn't he? Even if he couldn't handle something (he has about as much business being with you as you do with him, Banner), if he wanted it, it would be his. The billionaire was relentless, dogged, incessant...and he wouldn't rest until he was satisfied. And he wouldn't be satisfied until Bruce gave him something. Which almost certainly meant ruin and death and destruction and there is way too much at stake here for this to ever work, what the hell are you thinking?

Control.

That's what he was thinking. He could control himself, had been doing so for years. Maybe...he could trust himself. Not to have a relationship or whatever it was that the end goal was here (because he would never trust himself that much, that was insanity), but...enough to, hell, keep Tony at bay.

At least until he had another plan, an infallible escape route, or something.

If he wanted control over this, over whatever was going on between him and Tony, he was going to have to deal with it. Face it. Talk to Tony. Running wasn't going to give him the control he needed.

The implications of his decision were enough to make Bruce dizzy, and he moaned low, hearing his heartbeat echoing in his ears (94 bpm and rising, calm down, breathe, breathe). Because there was such a fine line there, between submitting to his emotions (dangerous, it's too dangerous) and indulging them enough to rein them in. But maybe if he gave Tony enough...the billionaire wouldn't demand anything more. And maybe then, it would be okay.

Do you really think this is going to work?

The short answer was 'no.' Bruce was walking a precipice, he knew, and he was so close to falling from the edge that he could already feel conversion from potential to kinetic energy. He knew he was (losing it) in no position to attempt a relationship because he was (broken) no good for anyone. But he really didn't see that he had another choice. Tony was incapable of doing the right thing, and he'd tied Bruce's hands. So now that Bruce couldn't do the right thing, he'd have to find a workaround that kept everyone safe. Because that was what he did. Kept everyone safe by keeping the monster in check.

Even if it required more willpower than he thought he possessed. He couldn't run, and he couldn't give in, and at the moment, he wanted to do both more than anything.

Bruce straightened. With a sigh, he reached out and turned off the water. Slowly, he dried off and dressed in something approximating pajamas. He slipped into bed.

Tomorrow. Later, I'll...I don't even know. But I can't do this right now.

* * *

Tony had slipped off to his lab, but he wasn't working.

He was actually pouting. Or maybe sulking. Whichever it was, it was pretty intense.

He'd intended to get a drink (because any rational person, after dealing with Loki for any amount of time, would crave alcohol) but then he'd remembered the whole acting-like-a-drunk-asshole thing from earlier, and that had really put a damper on things.

But then he'd thought about it some more, and decided that he wasn't going to let the thought of Bruce Fucking Banner's disapproval dictate his actions, because he was Tony Fucking Stark, and well, screw that. He'd do what he wanted.

So he'd poured himself a scotch, and had taken one sip before he'd pushed the glass off to the side of his desk.

The acting-like-a-drunk-asshole thing was lingering. And that pissed him off. So he sulked. Or pouted.

Because, well, to hell with Bruce, for being...staggeringly complicated and impossible to read and fucked up like February to boot. How could anyone deal with all of that?

How does he deal with all of that?

And that made Tony laugh to himself. Because Bruce Fucking Banner did not deal with it. He was a damn expert at not dealing and well, Tony suspect that if he expected anything different from Bruce, at this point, he was delusional.

Well, maybe not delusional. Maybe just very, very hopeful.

Bruce had seemed so normal during their road trip, and so maybe his hope was not entirely misplaced. But then...what he'd seen earlier...

Tony sighed and settled back into his chair. After a moment, he stood, making his way towards the elevator and bed.

Tomorrow, I'll do...something. But this shit is not happening right now.

It was a pretty pervasive theme that night. Morning. Whatever.

And, well, in general.

* * *

**Writing romance is really not my cup of tea. Romance doesn't make sense to me, which makes it really hard to get anywhere on that front. Added to the fact that my writing style has changed a lot since October, continuing this is going to be unavoidably awkward. But I'd like to finish it, if only to get it over with.**

**So, please keep an eye out for updates, and thanks for reading!**


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